


Castiel 2014

by silvrhuntress



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvrhuntress/pseuds/silvrhuntress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, instead of sending Dean to 2014, Zachariah sends Castiel instead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Castiel 2014

The forces of Heaven are not omniscient, but it’s a close thing, at least when you count the humans who serve Father’s will. At least, that was the only conclusion that Castiel could reach, standing in the dingy second-floor motel room. The light of dawn was only moments away, and Castiel had an appointment with his charge – who by all rights should have been asleep in the narrow bed. He hadn’t thought twice about the preacher shouting about the impending apocalypse outside, but…

Castiel tensed but didn’t dare struggle. Two angels held his arms, angels of a lower order, whose obedience to their superiors was never questioned. He could have broken free of them, if not for the third angel – or, more importantly, the sword in the third angel’s hand. The point just touched the bare skin between his vessel’s hairline and coat at the back of his neck.

“Castiel, Castiel, Castiel,” Zachariah said with a regretful shake of his head. He raised a hand, scolding with one pointed finger, sounding like the disappointed, stern, yet loving patriarch of a family that’s slowly slipping out of line with his vision for them, as if the lecture can get things back on track and make everything right with the world. For an angel who loathed humanity, he wore his vessel’s skin easily, mastering the body’s inflections, body language, and even facial expressions as if he’d been born mortal.

“Release me, Zachariah,” Castiel responded.

“I will, I will. I just want to have a chat, Brother. It’s been too long, wouldn’t you say?”

Castiel ignored that, thinking instead of the death-echo he had felt outside – a divine death, a righteous soul reaped to Heaven regardless of its time. The preacher. That had to be how they had found this place with Dean’s stamp, his scent, even his body warmth so close, as if they’d all missed Dean by moments.

At least, Castiel hoped the trap hadn’t also caught Dean.

“I didn’t think you’d stoop to allowing humans to do your dirty work,” Castiel baited, buying Dean some time. Zachariah wasn’t going to kill him, or it would have happened already. So either Zachariah was going to let Castiel go or he was going to drag Castiel back to Heaven for reconditioning. Either way, Castiel could do little to influence his fate.

“What, the preacher? He was devout and pious, Castiel. Of course I cared enough to listen to his words when he said it. ‘Dean Winchester has been found!’” Zachariah echoed, raising his arms in mock triumph. As he lowered them, he smiled at Castiel and gestured at him. “And so has his little tainted angel.”

“You dare accuse me of taint –”

In a sudden roar that rattled the windows, Zachariah bellowed, “I dare anything I please! You disgust me, with your betrayal of the Host, your refusal to do God’s will!”

So, it was reconditioning. Castiel looked away, steeling himself, letting his vessel’s face remain neutral and untouched by the fear coiling deep inside. An angel should not feel fear, after all, and especially not at the thought of returning to Heaven. Even divine punishment was a blessing, an opportunity to repent and atone, to become once more a part of the Host, for all time…

Even if it  _hadn’t_ worked when they’d done it to Castiel only a few Earthly months earlier.

Zachariah moved to stand right in front of Castiel. He raised his hands and slapped them into Castiel’s chest, tugging at the lapels of the trench coat Castiel always wore. “One more chance, Castiel. You know what the future will bring if you allow that maggot to continue on his course. Rein him in, or we will do it for you.”

Suspicious, Castiel looked back at him, careful not to move too quickly. He rejected a thousand responses before he found one that seemed appropriate, given that this was – or at least had been – Dean Winchester’s hotel room. “Go to Hell, you son of a bitch.”

He had the satisfaction of feeling Zachariah’s rage flare as the greater angel let slip his grace. Wings unfurled and glass shattered. “You first,” he sneered, and slapped his palm against Castiel’s forehead.

* * * * *

In one flash of light, Castiel learned a few things.

He understood why Dean Winchester hated being transported by divine means.

He understood why Dean Winchester loathed Zachariah.

And he understood that the angels were… gone.

All of them.

His vessel collapsed as his grace screamed, fragments of wood splintering everywhere, dust and plaster raining down from the ceiling. He wasn’t just Fallen, cast out of Heaven. He was  _alone_. He was terrified as he had not been even in Hell, when he had despaired of ever finding Dean and escaping the pit.

It took an eternity before he could finally get himself back under control, to get his grace subdued to his will, feeling like he was shredding it to pieces as he did. When he could finally think, he looked around the contours of the half-destroyed room, wondering for a moment why it was familiar.

“Dean,” he whispered, closing his eyes, seeing the room without the rubble and thick dust.

Something was wrong.

* * * * *

Castiel was staggering and uncoordinated as he hadn’t been even the first moment he joined with Jimmy Novak’s soul to wear a vessel for the first time. The lack of Heaven’s presence was more disorienting than anything he’d ever experienced, like a compass without a magnetic pole, spinning wildly.

It took him hours to realize the city wasn’t right. It wasn’t just the destruction, the burned out cars, the broken windows and boarded-up doors… It was the lack of souls.

The taint of demons lay over the city like a fog, something he hadn’t felt since Hell.

He checked and checked, daring to even soar his grace out of his vessel, but he honestly couldn’t be certain – not absolutely certain – that this was the mortal realm and not some new corner of Hell he’d never imagined.

So he walked, on the simple assumption that if  _here_  was bad, then anywhere else should most likely be better.

When he finally found people, he realized that no… this wasn’t better.

They walked like a pack of wild jackals, hunting, eyes sharp and searching, tainted blood flowing through their bodies like liquid fire. They didn’t even hesitate when they spotted him. They charged, a few of them brandishing makeshift weapons – pipes, splintered boards, even jagged pieces of glass clutched tight in hands that dripped corruption from open wounds.

Castiel felt a very un-angelic fear – not for his safety but for the fate of the world – and manifested his failing grace as wrath, wishing he’d thought to pick up a weapon. The pack surrounded him, falling one at a time as he reached out to burn the taint and unnatural life from their bodies. They clawed at him fearlessly, ripping into the flesh of his vessel, killing him by inches as they fell in droves.

As they were dying, he heard gunfire.

These infected things didn’t have the mental capacity to use guns.

He fought with renewed vigor, burning his grace even faster in his desperation to break the pack’s circle. As soon as he could, he abandoned the fight and ran, though everything inside him screamed that he should do Heaven’s work and smite each and every one of these creatures.

The gunfire echoed through the empty streets of the destroyed city like a homing beacon, drawing him nearer until it was finally there. He rounded the corner and saw bodies and parts flying everywhere, ripped asunder by a storm of automatic fire. There was no way he’d be recognized as untainted – not the way the attackers were firing indiscriminately.

Still, he needed them to show him the way out. He broke from hiding and threw himself behind a wrecked car, then ran as low to the ground as he could, advancing in the slippery mire of infested blood and guts from cover to cover. Bullets tore through his coat, grazed his flesh, but he was still an angel. He avoided any major damage to his vessel, though at the cost of even more of his dwindling grace.

When the truck of gunners left, to the sound of human laughter, Castiel watched the direction they took. They drove slowly, confident that their armored vehicle and guns would protect them as they carefully navigated the wreckage on the street.

Castiel followed.

* * * * *

The Winchesters moved around, but Bobby Singer’s scrap yard was the one constant in their life, now that the Roadhouse had been destroyed. With no idea how to drive a car, even if any of the cars abandoned on the roads were still working, he walked.

It took him six days of walking without stopping. The delay wore at him, but the cost of immediate transport was too high, compared to the cost of minimal repairs to his vessel. With no Host and a world full of demons, he had no idea if he’d ever restore the grace he’d already foolishly expended.

This was the apocalypse, as foreseen by the prophet. And Heaven had lost the war.

He discovered that the war had reached Bobby’s house, and not without casualties. Bobby’s wheelchair was there, bloodstained and rusting. Castiel touched his fingers to it and wished he could pray, but he knew there was no one listening. Bobby had been a good man. He deserved better. He deserved peace.

Instead of praying, Castiel found the supplies Bobby would never again need. He cleared off Bobby’s desk and washed the surface, then started drawing with a piece of white chalk. His hand shook at first; he might well be the last entity – other than Lucifer – who would even recognize Enochian symbology. But he had no choice, so he drew.

The spell was complicated, taxing, requiring Castiel’s blood as well as a touch of his grace – probably more than he could spare. But he needed to know his path, and that required the echo of the Axis Mundi, the world pillar that led to all places.

The spell work cost him a full day of casting and chanting and then some interminable, grey time of nothingness while his grace waned and his vessel weakened.

This time, he took one of Bobby’s cars, guessing that he could eventually figure out how to drive. He’d certainly watched Dean often enough. Besides, he didn’t think he had the energy to walk to Camp Chitaqua.

* * * * *

Castiel had no idea what to expect or even what Camp Chitaqua would be. It proved to be a dark, forested area surrounded by two shiny-looking chain link fences, one inside the other, both with coils of sharp-edged wires on top.

Not sure if it was hostile territory, Castiel circled it carefully, stealthily, until he found a tree that was close enough to the fences. It took another push of his grace to get him from the tree branch and over the inner fence without breaking something important on landing. As soon as he hit the earth, he felt an uncharacteristic shiver of fear, as though he’d just trapped himself.

It was not unlike flying into Hell.

Every sense alert, Castiel walked through the darkness, trying to hide his form behind the trees, moving away from the fences. He had left the Host of Heaven and lost much of his power, but he could see enough in the dark to distinguish a familiar shape; the sight of it hurt… more than he’d expected.

It was the Impala, sleek black finish turned to flakes and rust, body dented, tires flat. One door hung open on bent hinges.

“Dean,” he whispered, rushing around to the driver’s side. He looked in, terrified that he’d find Dean’s body there, skeletal hands clutching the wheel, blood staining the moldering seat.

The seat was empty.

Castiel closed his eyes, struggling to take a breath, not sure if he was relieved or even more scared. He couldn’t imagine anything – even the apocalypse – that would make Dean separate from the Impala and let it rot like this.

He was so caught up in his grief that he never heard a single noise behind him, right before the rifle butt smashed into the back of his head.

* * * * *

“Well?”

Castiel roused to the sound of Dean Winchester’s voice and could have cried at the relief. In that single harsh, low word, he heard infinite pain, but the truth of not only Dean’s life but his soul, untouched by the demonic contagion that filled the world.

“Whoa. This is… weird.”

It was that voice, the second voice, that got Castiel to open his eyes, though he looked first, always, to Dean Winchester and saw those familiar green eyes go wide. He was gaunt, unshaven, somehow older, eyes narrowed in a squint, with new scars traced over his flesh. But he was still Dean, still Castiel’s charge.

“Dean,” Castiel said over the ringing in his skull. He started to reach out, to set his hand to Dean’s shoulder, but his right hand was tethered by sharp, cold metal over his head.

“Cas… What the fuck?” Dean asked, looking not to Castiel, but to his right –

To another Castiel. Or – to Jimmy? It was Jimmy’s body, with no grace, an uninhabited vessel, but that – that couldn’t be, because it was not Jimmy’s soul.

Castiel surged up to his feet to defend Dean from the doppelganger – or at least he tried, but his limbs wouldn’t work right and he was tangled in his ruined trench coat and his right arm was still chained up and back behind his aching skull. “Dean! It’s not real!” he croaked in warning.

“You’re one to talk,” the false Castiel said, leaning closer, abhorrently. The creature’s resemblance was uncanny, except its blue eyes were almost consumed by blown pupils. Its beard was growing in and its dark hair was ragged, hanging over its dark brows. A strange smell clung to the doppelganger – not the sulfurous reek of demons but something familiar, somehow light and smoky-sweet.

“Enough,” Dean barked, and the creature looked up at Dean.

Castiel forgot to breathe for a moment, stunned by the look of despair and longing in the creature’s eyes.

A sudden movement made him look back up at Dean, in time to see the muzzle of the rifle swing down. It lodged against Castiel’s throat, forcing his head back into the metal frame to which he was bound. All he could see was the slow, pale flicker of light and shadow across the dusty, cobwebbed ceiling, cast by an oil lantern.

“What the fuck are you?” Dean demanded icily.

Castiel reached inside to his grace, to the connection he shared with the soul that he had rebuilt from the tattered shreds left in Hell. Dean’s soul, once so bright and beautiful, had been tarnished but not destroyed by Alistair’s torments. Dean himself had nearly done that, when he’d taken up Alistair’s razor, but Castiel had reached him just in time. He’d woven Dean’s soul together, a tapestry of light and dark stretched over the unbreakable steel frame of his will, and he’d watched as the hunter’s goodness had begun to heal those shadowy wounds.

Until now.

They were back, stains of darkness deep within the strands of light, shadowy stress points where Dean’s soul was beginning to fray.

There was no question in Castiel’s mind about what he had to do, though it would cost him his existence. He closed his eyes and let his vessel fall limp, expanding his consciousness into his fading grace. He heard the song of power – a single note, forlorn in a world without the choirs of Heaven – and gave himself over to it, reaching for Dean’s soul.

And then the way was blocked, hands grasping his wings so tight that the pain was unbearable. He snapped back into his vessel, retreating from that agony, and saw the creature – that  _thing_  wearing a mockery of his vessel – on its knees before him.

“Whoa, whoa. None of that,” the doppelganger said in Castiel’s own voice.

“Cas – I felt – something,” Dean said, shaken.

“I was trying to heal you,” Castiel said, looking away from the creature and back to Dean.

“Are you… real?”

In answer, Castiel tried again to reach for him, this time physically. He considered using his grace to remove the shackle, but he still resonated with the pain deep in his wings.

“He’s real,” the creature said. Castiel flinched when it tried to lay its hands on his face. It trapped him against the bars, holding him with callused fingers on his jawbones and cheeks. Castiel tried to turn away, but the doppelganger was strong. “Dean. I -  _He_  has his wings. His grace.”

Fear blazed up inside Castiel and he dove back into himself. He wouldn’t let this creature take his grace; he’d destroy it first.

But the moment he manifested, the creature grabbed his wings and gave a hard enough shake that he gasped and slammed his vessel’s skull into the bars. Stunning pain burst through his grace and body alike.

“Stop!” the creature snapped. Mercifully it let go, getting to its feet and backing away. “It’s me, Dean.”

“No!” Castiel protested weakly. “Dean, that thing’s –”

“Enough!” Dean barked, dirty hands going white at the knuckles as he clutched the rifle across his body. “Cas.”

“Yes, Dean?” Castiel answered. To his horror, the doppelganger, the mockery of himself, did the same.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched. “ _My_  Cas,” he said, and to Castiel’s despair, he turned to the creature. “Is this guy a threat?”

“To the Croats? Sure,” the creature said, with a casual shrug. “Let’s turn him loose, let him to go town on them.”

“To us?”

“Hmm… No, don’t think so,” it said, turning its dark gaze back on Castiel. “But what am I doing here? Still dressed like that?”

“I’ll find out, before you two kill each other,” Dean said, and gave the creature a shove. “Go back home. I’ll call if I need you.”

“Sure you don’t want to come with?”

Dean let out a strange, bitter little laugh. “Yeah. Go have fun,” he said, leaning against the doorway of the rustic, one-room cabin, watching the creature leave.

* * * * *

Had Castiel been mortal, he would have wept. He fought to control his grace, a thousand questions spinning through him. What was that doppelganger? How had it been able to sense, much less touch his wings? What had it done to Dean? Had it caused the shadows on Dean’s fraying soul?

Castiel was an angel. A warrior. He let his despair turn to protectiveness and let that turn to rage, scouring away the weakness inside. He drew in a breath, anchoring himself in his vessel, and expended enough of his grace to rise, the shackle falling from his wrist.

“Dean,” was all he said – all he could say – as he advanced on his charge. His vessel trembled with the effort to contain him; he had asked too much of this physical body, almost a desecration of Jimmy Novak’s blessed gift, but he couldn’t stop. Not now.

Dean spun and brought up the rifle. Castiel ripped it away and threw it aside, grabbing hold of Dean’s olive drab jacket with his left hand. He pinned Dean to the wall and ripped through the neck of Dean’s T-shirt.

 _“Cas!”_

Dean’s scream ended with a gasp as Castiel’s hand engulfed the print burned onto his left shoulder, fitted precisely, like a key sliding into a lock.

Castiel gasped as well, wings flaring, his grace drawing on the bond he shared with Dean, rejuvenating itself as it in turn began to scorch away the shadows on Dean’s soul. This was what they were meant to be, feeding each other power, never weakening but instead strengthening. Healing.

The world narrowed to nothing but Dean’s soul, the physical presence of his living body, his brilliant green eyes alive with wonder.

This time, when Castiel drew in his wings, there was no pain. He couldn’t bring himself to let go of Dean’s shoulder. It was a weakness, a need for reassurance, to know that Dean was still his.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, no longer struggling. “How?”

It took Castiel a moment to find his voice. “I… am uncertain. I went to your hotel room as we had planned, but you were not there. Zachariah was, with three others. They… took me by surprise.”

“Uh. What hotel?” the doppelganger asked, making Castiel jump. It was standing right next to them, in the doorway, looking at them both through calm blue eyes with huge pupils.

Defensively, Castiel shoved Dean behind himself and grabbed for the creature, feeling strong enough to tear it apart for even coming near Dean. It made no move to defend itself; it just let out a gasp as it hit the wall where Dean had been an instant earlier. Castiel pinned it not by the lapel but by the throat and wrenched back one hand, hooking into its soul.

The thing gasped and thrashed and Castiel began the incantation quickly, before it could escape.  _“A zod-i-re-dah –“_  he intoned, feeling the creature’s soul flutter like a trapped bird. 

“Cas! Uh, both! Stop!” Dean insisted, grabbing hold of Castiel’s raised hand, breaking his concentration. “That’s  _also_  you, Cas!”

“Dean, you’ve been deceived –”

“Oh, fuck this,” Dean said, and hit Castiel in the jaw.

The punch had almost no effect, save to turn Castiel’s head and make him shift his weight. Dean started cursing, cradling his fist, glaring at both Castiel and the doppelganger.

It was so characteristically, intrinsically  _Dean,_ though, that Castiel let go of the creature.

It gasped, rubbing at its throat, lips parted, never looking away from Castiel. “Okay, there are possibilities here that… that I never even considered…” it said.

Castiel spared it only a glance, before turning his attention away again. Dean, however, was staring at the thing with wide eyes, a flush rising over his cheeks. “Okay. You are  _not_ going to – not with – him!” he stammered, pointing at Castiel.

The angel felt the doppelganger’s regard like a spotlight, but refused to be provoked. “Dean. We need to talk.”

“And I need to remember how to breathe,” the creature said, its voice low and growling and strangely thick.

“Cas. Out!” Dean snapped, sounding more flustered than angry.

“When you’re done with him –”

“Do not make me kick your ass,” Dean threatened.

“That might just make my night,” it said, leaving the cabin unsteadily, bumping into the door.

Dean brushed past Castiel and slammed the door, throwing the bolt across to lock it. “Cas. I’m – Fuck, I’m about to apologize for you getting offended by  _yourself,_ ” he said, looking up at the ceiling.

“Dean. You need to explain what’s going on,” Castiel prompted.

“Right back at you,” Dean countered, though the words meant nothing to Castiel. Dean didn’t stay to explain; he went back into the room, to a counter that stretched across one wall, and got a bottle out of one of the cabinets. He found two chipped, mismatched glasses on a shelf and poured a splash into each. “You first,” he prompted, holding out the glass to Castiel.

Castiel looked at it and finally took it only because it seemed to be what Dean expected. He thought about what to say, but didn’t like any of the options, until he finally remembered something the creature had said: “The doppelganger mentioned ‘Croats’. The demon, Croatoan?”

Dean gave him a baffled sort of look and sipped his drink. “Yeah, Cas. The Croats infesting the whole fucking world, y’know?”

“What?”

“The Croats –” Dean cut off, eyes going wide, and asked, “Cas… what year do you think it is?”

“Two thousand and nine.”

“Fuck,” Dean breathed, closing his eyes, and finished his drink in two swallows. “Cas. It’s twenty-fourteen.”

* * * * *

Of course.

This… this was what would happen if Lucifer won and destroyed Michael.

Castiel understood everything now. This was his punishment, to see the future, to scare him into obeying the will of Heaven. To assist them in breaking Dean Winchester.

“And – the other…” He gestured weakly toward the door.

“That’s you, Cas.”

He didn’t want to believe it, of course, but it fit too well with Zachariah’s malicious plan. “Without my grace,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Dean said softly, turning away. Castiel thought it might have been a courtesy, Dean giving him a moment of privacy like this, in a human way, but with his grace strengthened, he was able to control his vessel’s outward expressions perfectly.

“I need to –” He paused, looking back toward the locked door, momentarily tripped up by the strangeness of the situation. “– talk to… myself,” he finally said.

Dean turned back from the counter, his glass refilled, and held out the whiskey bottle to splash more into Castiel’s glass. “I, uh… don’t know if you’re ready for that, Cas oh-nine.”

“Zachariah sent me here for a reason, Dean. I need to not only determine the full extent of his plans; I need to learn everything about this situation to determine if this is a true path and not a… a trickster’s alternate creation.”

Dean took a deep breath, surprising Castiel with the sudden hope that showed in his eyes. “Think that’s possible?”

“Not by Zachariah’s powers alone, but… we’re not precisely favorites among the archangels, Dean.”

Nodding, Dean said, “Then I’ll show you to his – your cabin. Let’s hope this is a trickster’s work, cause if it’s not… we’re seriously fucked. And drink that. You’re gonna need it.”

* * * * *

Castiel’s earlier impression of Camp Chitaqua was mostly correct: it was dark and heavily wooded. Vehicles were littered about with no regard to parking or streets. Footpaths wound through them, little trails of dust between the weeds.

One cabin, though, blazed with light. Every window had candles or oil lamps visible. Castiel could see their firelight shining through Enochian sigils of protection drawn on the windows in holy water. The energy pattern was weak, as if they’d been drawn –

Of course. They had been drawn by a human.

“Cas? You okay?”

He felt Dean’s hand on his elbow and realized he’d stopped walking. He nodded numbly and let Dean lead him up the split-log steps. The doorway ahead was open save for a beaded brown and white curtain that was pulled to one side and tied off against the jamb. Inside, the door itself had been propped open with a rock.

He – his future self, that is – stepped into view and smiled. It was an easy, comfortable expression, an angel long since grown accustomed to borrowed flesh, and one Castiel was surprised to find that he envied. “I’ve got it from here, Dean,” his future self said.

“And have you two kill each other? Fuck that.” Dean released Castiel’s elbow and walked in, giving the other Castiel a gentle shove. When both Castiels sighed, one softly, one loudly, Dean muttered, “As if one of you isn’t enough.”

Castiel’s future self gestured Castiel inside. “It’s not much, but it’s more of a home than Heaven ever was.”

Struck by the truth of that, Castiel entered, feeling the Enochian wards settle against his skin gently, like a light blanket.

The cabin was half the size of Dean’s, taken up mostly by a pile of pillows on the floor, with a dark glass water pipe prominently set in the middle. Statues in bronze and stone from a dozen different faiths were scattered along the floor against the walls. A wicker shelf, one leg propped up on a stack of flat rocks, was crowded with candles, glass jars, folded cloth, and a few books.

The sweet, smoky smell was heavy in here.

Dean gave the room one quick glance before he shoved a couple of statues aside with his foot, clearing a space so he could sit with his back to the wall, facing the door. He still had his rifle on its sling over his shoulder.

His future self folded down easily onto the pillows with that same sad, desperate smile as when he looked at Dean before. When he turned to face Castiel, though, the quality of that smile changed in some human way that Castiel couldn’t immediately read. It was as if seeing emotion on  _his_ face was too incomprehensible.

“Sit, Cas,” Dean finally said, waving a hand as if to indicate he could sit where he liked.

With no other real choice, Castiel started to obey, but his future self held up a hand. “Coats off. You’re already wrecking the feng shui.”

Surprised, Castiel peered through his grace and realized that yes, he was, though he couldn’t quite place _how_ the energy of the room was supposed to flow. The ancient discipline of feng shui could be used to sculpt one of an infinite number of harmonic energy patterns, from peace to prosperity to vitality – or much darker things. This one, though, was unfamiliar.

He took off his trench, jacket, and tie, folding each garment neatly in a pile by the door, before he sat down, trying to work within the power flows. It was difficult, like driving on a road where the painted lines had faded, so he didn’t even realize what he was seeing until he looked again toward Dean.

With his tension and weapons, Dean should have acted like a boulder blocking a river – a source of turbulence and discord. Instead, the energy flowed over him, accepting his presence as he was, without any expectation that he’d change.

At least his future self was looking out for this Dean. Grace or not, he knew his duty.

* * * * *

Hard as it was for Castiel to look away from Dean, he made himself study his future self, trying to see the paths that stretched through time to connect them. His future self was definitely at ease within his body, dexterously filling the bowl of the water pipe with dried leaves from a glass jar, only occasionally glancing up at the others as if to see who was watching him.

“When are you from?”

“Two thousand and nine.”

His future self nodded, glancing up at the ceiling for a moment, not in prayer but in thought. “Yes. I’d imagine Zachariah was sick of us back then.”

“You have no memory of this event.”

“Nope.”

Dean leaned forward. “Then maybe – maybe this isn’t real?”

“Why do you hope that?” Castiel asked.

Dean let out a contemptuous snort. “Look around. This is the best humanity has to offer, right about now. Lucifer’s forces unleashed the Croatoan virus in every city they could hit, all over the globe. The Croats outnumber us ten to one.”

“All roads lead to the same destiny,” Castiel said, though without the same certainty as he might have once felt.

“Fuck that,” Dean said bluntly. “You think you’re going to end up going back?”

“Back?” Castiel asked, momentarily puzzled, before he realized Dean meant back to his own time. He searched inside himself and realized that yes, he could go back, but… “I could help you.”

“Wanna know how you can help?”

“Of course,” Castiel said, ignoring the way his future self frowned worriedly.

Dean’s green eyes almost glittered as he got to his feet. “Tell me, back then, to fucking  _say yes._ ”

Shocked, betrayed, Castiel couldn’t even think of how to respond.

“You think what you’ve seen is bad? South America’s  _gone._ Most of the Pacific Rim nations got swallowed by volcanoes. There’s a God-damned glacier covering half of Russia. No one even knows if Australia even exists anymore. Three-quarters of the people on the fucking planet are dead, and half of them are back up and walking again,” Dean spat furiously. “So you strap on your wings and get your ass back to your own time and  _make me say yes._ ”

Before Castiel could respond, his future self got up, saying, “I’ll take care of it, Dean.”

“No bullshit, Cas. This is an order.”

“I understand. I know how to talk to myself,” his future self said, gently but firmly trying to push Dean out of the room. “There are things he needs to know, though.”

“I swear, Cas, if you fuck this up…”

“I know.” His future self closed the door on what Castiel realized was no empty threat. Then he closed his eyes and slumped back against the door for a moment, taking three deep breaths.

“I won’t –” Castiel began

 _“Aga,”_ his future self said harshly. “Enochian. He is probably still listening.”

“Of course,” Castiel said, glad that he – or the other him, anyway – remembered the language of Heaven.

His future self let out a sigh and pushed away from the door, returning to sit heavily on the cushions. He stretched out for a twist of tightly-braided hay, which he held in a candle. When it flamed, he brought it to the bowl of the water pipe and inhaled through an ornate silvered mouthpiece, closing his eyes, filling the room with a sudden sweet, smoky odor.

It suddenly occurred to Castiel where he’d smelled it before: some of the bars where the Winchesters had brought him, usually outside, in the parking lot. “That’s a psychoactive compound,” he said, having to revert to English for the technical term, since the equivalent terms in Enochian were more spiritual than physical in nature.

“Is it?” his future self asked rhetorically, holding out one of the other mouthpieces. “It helps.”

Castiel had no reason not to trust himself. He took the mouthpiece and exhaled, then closed his lips around it and breathed in. The sensation was unusual, cool smoke filling his mouth with its taste, coiling deep into his lungs. He felt his vessel respond almost immediately, heart accelerating. He could track the chemical changes in his brain and body as they occurred.

“How am I still alive, only human?” Castiel asked himself.

“Penance.” His future self bowed his head and took another deep breath of the smoke. “I failed.”

“Dean refused Michael. I was tasked with readying him for that destiny,” Castiel guessed. If Dean was still  _himself,_ then Michael had never faced Lucifer, or had done so in a flawed vessel, and Lucifer had won.

“That’s not the failure I mean.” His future self looked up and gestured at the mouthpiece Castiel still had. “I failed my faith in _Dean._ ”

Castiel frowned at that and took another drag off the pipe. The smoke was still cool but stronger this time as the coals spread in the bowl. “How?”

“Sam grew apart from him. You… you know about Sam and Ruby? The demon blood?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry. The years blend together,” his future self said dismissively. “Then you know that Sam betrayed Dean, and Dean feels that he failed Sam.”

“That hasn’t happened,” Castiel protested.

“It will, if you don’t change things.”

Castiel frowned and absently moderated the temperature of his vessel, feeling… warm. “Change what things?” he prompted, inhaling more of the smoke.

“Dean is a protector. That requires someone to protect – someone who needs him. Someone who  _was_ Sam, until Sam ‘grew up’.” His future self let out a bitter laugh at the last two words. “After that, Dean had no one who believed in him.”

“Why didn’t you? Or why didn’t I?” he asked, a little confused about tenses. Even Enochian didn’t have a grammar structure for temporal shifts like this.

His future self sighed and shifted, reclining against the pillows, still holding the mouthpiece of the pipe in one hand. “Because, I put my faith in our Father instead. I obeyed the dictates of Heaven,” he said grimly.

Shocked to the core, Castiel asked, “How? How did it end this way, then?”

“Because this… this is what Heaven  _wants_. Lucifer’s plague will scour the Earth, and then Lucifer will lay siege to the gates of Heaven.”

“And the ranks of the angels shall strike him down, and Paradise will reign on Earth,” Castiel finished, his eyes going wide.

“Exactly. With no mention of  _humans_ anywhere in the mix.”

Of course. It was so horrifyingly simple…

He wasn’t aware that he’d closed his eyes to better focus on feeling the resonant truth. When he felt a touch on his arm, he twitched in surprise, eyes opening to meet his own blue eyes right there in front of him. As Dean would have once said, ‘personal space’.

“He needs your faith  _then_. Because if Lucifer takes Sam, it’ll be too late.”

“There must be a mistake,” Castiel protested. “This cannot be Father’s plan.”

“Destiny can’t be changed. All roads lead to the same destination,” his future self quoted back at him.

Castiel suddenly understood why Dean and Sam were so often frustrated with him. He was an angel, not a human, and sometimes, the gulf of understanding was too broad.

Just as it was now, with himself-the-angel and himself-the-Fallen.

“Then why?” he demanded, letting the silver pipe mouthpiece fall as he pushed himself to sit upright, a little dizzily. He got all the way to his feet, needing to move, even if just to pace. “Why bring me here if nothing can be changed?”

“I didn’t say nothing can be changed,” his future self said, also standing. “I said  _all_ roads lead to the same destination – even the roads you didn’t take.”

Something tickled at Castiel’s consciousness, some thought just out of reach.

His future self stepped carefully past the water pipe and walked over to him on silent, bare feet. “But which Dean would you have at your side at that destination? The one who walked there on bleeding feet, mourning his brother’s loss? Or the one that drove there in the Impala, music loud, windows rolled down, loved ones beside him?”

“Heaven’s plan,” Castiel whispered, closing his eyes in understanding. “Heaven wanted him forged into a sword, to stand alone, an empty vessel for Michael to use.”

“Dean Winchester is a whole lot stronger without Michael in his skin.”

Castiel sighed and felt hands on his shoulders. He leaned into the touch, sensing the echo of his other self’s grace, even if the grace itself was gone. As his wings slowly spread, the hands moved from his shoulders to his wings, curling around to smooth at the coverts he’d ruffled earlier.

“I remember,” his future self whispered, leaning in to touch their foreheads together. “I never let Dean see my wings. I always thought… I wanted to wait. And then, they were gone.”

“We’ll take a different road,” Castiel promised himself, looking into his own eyes. “If this happens…”

“Then all this won’t exist.” His future self seemed tranquil about the possibility of obliteration, but given what Castiel had seen of the world, obliteration would be peace. “I’d pray for your success, but no one’s listening.”

“I am,” Castiel said firmly.

His future self gave a faint smile, one reminiscent of Dean’s cocky, seductive smirk that he’d used to such devastating effect on so many women. Castiel felt a little shock; he’d never imagined that  _he_  could do that, but the impact was undeniable. Then he leaned forward, cupping Castiel’s face in familiar hands, their lips pressing together.

Castiel didn’t even think to protest. He let it happen, drawing his grace into a tight ball deep inside, letting his vessel’s senses overwhelm him. The kiss was soft and gentle only for moments, before a tongue slid between his lips. He gasped at the raw physical sensations, the heat and need that tongue awakened as it explored his mouth, slid over his own tongue, flicked across his teeth.

When his future self finally broke the kiss, it left Castiel staggered, struggling to rein in his vessel’s reactions. That smirk was back, with an edge of satisfaction, this time. “Have the courage to love him,”

Castiel had to close his eyes so he could focus, feeling the pressure of the kiss on his lips, the awakening desire reaching through his whole body. He wanted to say something, but he knew this him – this self – would never exist, because Castiel would do anything to stop it.

Without opening his eyes, he let loose his grace and spread his wings, searching deep inside for the soul-bond he shared with Dean. It would be taxing, traveling through the years, but Castiel had the strength, now that he had a purpose. 


End file.
